


Too Old for Surprises

by poselikeateam



Series: Incubus Jaskier AUs [4]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Succubi & Incubi, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Birthday Sex, Bisexual Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Bisexual Jaskier | Dandelion, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, Cunnilingus, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Communicating, Getting Together, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Incubus Jaskier | Dandelion, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Friendship, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Love Confessions, M/M, Marathon Sex, No Refractory Period, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Oblivious Jaskier | Dandelion, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Romantic Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Service Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Succubi & Incubi, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Trans Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Voice Kink, which means I wrote sex for my birthday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:00:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25118011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poselikeateam/pseuds/poselikeateam
Summary: Jaskier has just turned sixty-three. It hits him about a week later that he should probably, definitely look older than he did in his twenties. Apparently, he is the only one who doesn't know why.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Incubus Jaskier AUs [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1778233
Comments: 24
Kudos: 929





	Too Old for Surprises

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this written for like a month and have been jealously hoarding it in my Google Docs because today is my TWENTY FIFTH BIRTHDAY. So this is my birthday present to you. There will probably be a sort of sequel tomorrow lmao
> 
> (I would have posted this way earlier but I've been doing birthday stuff. Mostly getting a lot of phone calls. Also I slept until 3pm.)

Jaskier’s birthday has just passed. As always, he’d used the day to indulge himself, do whatever he’d felt like regardless of cost because it’s his _birthday_ and he deserves it. He’d even managed to convince Geralt to take the day off to celebrate with him, which is no small feat. 

It isn’t until he lays himself down in a very comfortable bed with a very respectable buzz that night that he realises he hadn’t given any thought to which birthday this was. It takes him a bit to actually count, and he’s willing to blame the alcohol at first, until he actually comes to the number.

Sixty-three. 

Jaskier is sixty-three years old and still looks no older than he had in his mid twenties. He’s not stupid, he knows his skincare routine isn’t _that_ good, so he brings it up to Yennefer casually about a week later over tea. Geralt is out on a hunt, and Yennefer’s current address happens to be in the same city as their contract. For once, that suits him fine. If anyone can figure out his youthful appearance, it’s her. After all, over the years, they’ve sort of become friends. They still fight like spoilt children more often than not but the venom is mostly gone, and they care for each other, in their own odd way.

“You know, I think I’m looking pretty good for a man of sixty,” he says casually, studying his nails.

Yennefer squints at him. “You’re sixty?” she asks.

He shrugs. “Well, sixty-three, but don’t go around telling people. Honestly, it’s hard for even me to believe some days. It’s almost like, by my late twenties, I _stopped aging_ altogether.” 

She leans back, giving him an appraising look that would make him shiver if he wasn’t used to it by now.

Finally, she says, “You mean you didn’t know?”

Of all the things he was expecting, or could have potentially claimed to have expected afterwards, he can’t say that this was one of them. “I’m sorry?”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she says, and the amusement she’s obviously feeling is not something that’s shared between the two of them, thank you very much.

“Yennefer, darling,” he says carefully, “what is it that you thought I knew?”

“What would be the fun in telling you?” she replies. 

He purses his lips. “You can gloat about it?” he offers.

“I can do that already.”

“Yes,” he agrees, hating that he’s going to suggest this, “but do you really want to wait?”

She stares at him, like a hawk watching a field mouse scurry below it. Eventually, when he’s good and uncomfortable, she says, “Yes, I suppose you’re right for once.” He waits — very patiently, thank you — for her to tell him what she knows. He knows by now that pressing her for information will only make her withhold it longer. “Obviously, you’re not entirely human.”

“I was sort of hoping you weren’t going to say that,” he tells her. This time, he had anticipated her response, but it doesn’t make him feel any better. “So, ah, what am I, exactly?”

“Incubus,” she says bluntly. Fuck, but she really knows the best way to make him as uncomfortable as possible. 

“Ah,” he answers weakly. He feels almost as if he isn’t really there, as if he’s watching the exchange from somewhere sort of to the left of himself. “Explains a lot, I suppose.”

Yennefer doesn’t respond. He can’t tell if she’s giving him time to process this, or if she’s just enjoying watching his whole world fall apart. There’s really no telling with her, sometimes. 

“As lovely as this has been,” he says, still sounding distant even to his own ears, “I really must be going.” 

He doesn’t know exactly _how_ he’s going to be going when his legs feel as steady as a lamb’s, but he really, _really_ needs to be alone right now. Thus, he isn’t actually as annoyed as he’d normally be when he finds himself very suddenly sitting on his and Geralt’s shared bed in the local inn. Fucking witches and their showy fucking magic. 

Jaskier doesn’t actually get up from the bed. First, he simply lies down on it as he waits for the dizziness to stop. Whether it’s from the impromptu portaling, or the very sudden news, or some mix of the two, he can’t really say. Still, he thinks he deserves to lie here and scream into his pillow whatever the reason, so he indulges himself in that for a moment. It sort of helps.

“I heard screaming,” Geralt says from the door. Jaskier can hear him sliding his sword back into place on his back, and snorts. Of course, even muffled by the pillow and outside of the room, the witcher would have heard him. Of course he’d jump to a violent conclusion when he did. “I thought you were with Yen?”

“Geralt,” he says, removing the pillow from his face but not looking up, “have you noticed anything strange about me over the years?”

“Do you want a list?” the witcher responds drily, and Jaskier snorts again. 

“Cute. Listen, I mean it.”

“What happened?” Geralt asks, taking off his armour and sitting next to the reclining bard. Apparently he has finally started to take note of Jaskier’s current existential crisis. 

“I turned sixty-three last week,” Jaskier answers.

“I know,” Geralt says. “I was there. You tried to commit arson. It was an interesting celebration.”

“Geralt,” he whines. “Sixty- _three_.”

“I’m not seeing the problem,” the witcher admits. Jaskier puts the pillow back over his face because he cannot handle this right now.

“Yennefer said I’m not human, entirely,” he finally says. His voice is once again muffled by the pillow, but it makes the conversation feel easier, and it’s not like Geralt won’t be able to understand him with his stupid witcher ears anyway.

“You mean you didn’t know?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier screams into the pillow again because he is fucking worth it.

“Why the fuck did neither of you tell me!?” he snarls.

He feels the bed shift as Geralt shrugs. “I thought you knew.”

“I hate you,” Jaskier says. “I hate you both so much I’m going to combust.”

“Incubi are resistant to fire damage,” says the witcher automatically.

“Don’t you use your occupational knowledge on me like I’m some kind of — of _study tool!_ ” Jaskier shouts, throwing the pillow at the other man as hard as he can. Unsurprisingly, it does no damage, but it still feels nice to do it.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says as gently as possible, apparently finally becoming aware of his bard’s current temperament. 

“I don’t want to know what you’re going to say,” the bard snaps. “I already had that witch making fun of me, and I don’t need you to do it too.”

“I’m not going to make fun of you,” Geralt says. He sounds like he means it — for now, at least. “I just don’t understand how you didn’t notice before.”

“I don’t know! I never considered it — I didn’t know it was something to consider!”

“What about when you didn’t get any older?” the witcher asks.

“I tried not to think about it,” the bard admits, almost sheepishly. “I’ve always been… uneasy, I suppose, about growing old. I tried to think about it as little as possible.”

“Hmm,” says Geralt. It’s his ‘yeah, I hear you there, buddy’ hum. 

“I don’t know what this means,” Jaskier continues. He’s sitting up now, but he’s looking steadfastly at his own lap. 

“It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“It does, though!” he insists. “I’ve apparently been some kind of monster this whole damned time, and nobody told me, and I don’t know— I feel like I have to rethink everything, review my entire life under a new lens and I don’t even know how this affects me!”

“As far as I can tell,” says the witcher, “it’s not much. You don’t have any horns. You don’t smell like sulfur most of the time, either, except when you come back from your married women, but even then it’s faint enough that a human wouldn’t be able to tell.”

“They aren’t all married women,” he grumbles, trying to pretend that he isn’t listening _very_ intently. 

Geralt ignores that as he continues, professional as ever. “If I had to guess, based on your scent and the way my medallion reacts to you — or, doesn’t — you’re less than half.”

“But what does that _mean_?” he insists.

The witcher shrugs. “All I have is conjecture,” he admits. “I tend to not observe your trysts from a dark corner.”

Jaskier laughs at the mental image, despite the thrill it sends through him. “I wonder if we could get a volunteer for that sort of thing,” he jokes, ignoring how appealing that idea is to him.

“Hmm,” says Geralt. 

“What was that you said about scent?” he suddenly asks, not yet ready to let the conversation end. He still needs to know things, even if he doesn’t quite know what those things are. 

“You always smell faintly of lust,” replies the witcher, and by the look on his face, Geralt would be blushing if his mutagens didn’t prevent it. 

“Ah,” Jaskier answers with none of his usual eloquence. 

The thing is, he isn’t constantly walking around with a hard-on. That would be ridiculous. He also isn’t always thinking about sex — he thinks about his music much more, honestly. Yes, he sleeps around, but it isn’t the only thing in his life, for Melitele’s sake. 

Geralt, though. Jaskier will admit that he is _very_ attracted to the large man, and has been for an embarrassingly long time. He tries very hard to keep his fantasies from involving his best friend, but sometimes he can’t help but let his mind wander to amber eyes and white hair in the heat of the moment. 

Apparently, it was more obvious than he’d thought. Luckily for him, Geralt is apparently as oblivious as he is, because he thinks it’s just an _incubus thing_. Honestly, though, it doesn’t feel _fair_ to trick him like that. He isn’t sure why, but he feels like he has to come clean.

“Actually, erm, I don’t think that’s an incubus thing,” he says carefully. “I think it’s just a, you know, ‘my traveling companion is unnecessarily attractive’ thing.”

“What?” Geralt sounds confused, or surprised, or perhaps even disbelieving. Jaskier might be able to tell what, exactly, the witcher is feeling about all of this if he looked at him, but… he can’t really bring himself to look at his friend right now.

“Sorry,” Jaskier says. He _is_ blushing because he does _not_ have fancy mutagens that keep him from doing so. “Didn’t mean to, ah, make you uncomfortable.”

“Hmm,” the witcher answers for only the third time in this single conversation. Jaskier is proud of how far his conversational skills have come over the length of their friendship. Then, he says, “It’s more than simple lust.” 

Jaskier’s heart is _racing_ , and he desperately tries to silently tell it to calm the fuck down before Geralt hears it. Does the witcher know about his feelings? Has he known all this fucking time?

Before Jaskier can say anything potentially incriminating, Geralt continues. “Incubi and succubi use pheromones to attract… lovers. Usually they’re too subtle for humans to notice, and even witchers have to consciously search for it. If someone is attracted to the incubus or succubus, though… it’s much stronger to them. And you… you smell very good.”

There’s a pause, and then it’s Jaskier’s turn to say, “What?” 

He looks at Geralt now, who is looking very embarrassed. It makes his heart do a funny little flip. Well, he thinks, in for a penny, and all that. Rather than let Geralt fumble his way through an answer, Jaskier says, “If we’re apparently committed to admitting uncomfortable things this evening, I’m. Well, I’m, ah, more than just _attracted_ to you.” Geralt looks at him sharply, his expression guarded. “I’m not the only oblivious person in the room, you know. I think the whole Continent has known that I’ve been in love with you for some time now.”

Honestly, he _was_ expecting a verbal response of some sort. Even a ‘hmm’ would have made sense. That being said, he certainly doesn’t _mind_ being suddenly kissed within an inch of his life. And it’s such a Geralt thing, to respond with actions rather than words, that it’s almost sickeningly endearing.

Suddenly, inspiration strikes him like lightning. “Geralt, darling?” he purrs, pulling back just enough to be able to form the words. The witcher hums in response, and he continues, “Perhaps we could use this opportunity to test what, exactly, my apparent incubus side does?” 

The witcher pulls away, and Jaskier panics for a moment, thinking that he’s fucked this all up, but— oh, rather than leaving, he’s pinning Jaskier with a hungry gaze that has him _squirming_. “We might have to do several tests,” the witcher says, lips curling into a smirk that makes heat pool in Jaskier’s belly. 

“Anything for science,” the bard breathes, sliding his hands under Geralt’s tunic. “May I?”

Geralt nods. Jaskier has never been more turned on in his fucking _life_ , and he swallows thickly as he slowly exposes more and more of the wonderful, gorgeous, well-sculpted body in front of him. Geralt’s chest is broad and muscled, and Jaskier would love to spend _days_ just memorising every inch of it with his tongue and his lips and his teeth and his hands. Gods, he would almost be fine if it were the only part of the witcher he could touch.

It isn’t, though, and isn’t that a delight. Jaskier can touch anywhere, and just the knowledge of that is more than enough to fuel his fantasies for the rest of his life. 

Just when he’s about to unlace Geralt’s trousers, large hands rest over top of his, stilling them. He shoots a questioning look at the witcher; has he done something wrong? Has he ruined this somehow before it’s even started? 

Geralt is not looking at him, and that only increases his alarm, before the witcher speaks. “I… want to make sure you’re okay with, you know. This. Me.”

Now he’s just confused. “Geralt, dear,” he responds gently, “I don’t think we would have gotten to this point if I weren’t.”

The witcher still doesn’t look at him. There’s silence, but it’s one that Jaskier won’t break; he has seen this look on his witcher’s face before, after all. It’s the look he gets when he is trying to find the right words, when he doesn’t want to say the wrong thing, when he desperately needs to explain something but cannot figure out how. 

“I don’t think I’m what you’re expecting,” is what he finally settles on.

Now Jaskier is even more confused which, honestly, he hadn’t thought possible before this specific point in time. “What, a fantastic lay?” he jokes, and it’s gratifying to see the corners of Geralt’s mouth twitch up just so. “Darling, whatever it is that’s bothering you, let’s talk about it. The only thing I’m _expecting_ is for us to enjoy ourselves, and if something’s upsetting you, then yes, I’d say my expectations have been defied in that regard.”

The witcher breathes out sharply through his nose. Jaskier is reasonably sure that he’s not angry at him, that it’s more of a ‘steeling himself for this conversation’ thing, but it’s still concerning. He doesn’t want Geralt to be upset while they’re in bed together. He only wants Geralt upset in entertaining ways, and nothing more than _mild annoyance_ is actually entertaining. 

The point is that he wants Geralt to _destress_ , not be _distressed_. 

“Talk to me, love,” he says, pulling one of his hands back to brush his thumb across one of Geralt’s gorgeous cheekbones. (His face could cut fucking glass, probably.)

“I’m trying,” Geralt answers. “I don’t know how.”

Jaskier hums, considering, and then murmurs, “Close your eyes.”

“Why?”

He laughs. “Always so guarded. It may be easier if you can pretend I’m not here.”

“I can still feel you,” Geralt says. Jaskier knows that’s a fucking understatement; Geralt’s witcher senses can probably pick him up a thousand different ways. 

“Just try it,” he answers, pulling his hands away and placing them in his own lap.

“Fine,” Geralt grumbles. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath in through his nose, lets it out through his mouth. “I don’t have a cock.”

Well. That wasn’t quite what Jaskier was expecting to hear — at least, not so bluntly. He’d be lying if he said he’s never had any partners whose outside doesn’t match their inside, so to speak. It’s not unheard of, and he’s never judged any of them for it. 

Apparently Geralt is taking his silence in the worst way possible, and Jaskier should have anticipated that. One of his greatest talents is jumping to the worst conclusion immediately, after all. Still, now Geralt is practically babbling, and that is far more unexpected than his anatomy. 

“Witchers are never girls,” he says, eyes still closed. “The Trials take care of that. Sometimes girls come to Kaer Morhen, but they never _leave_ as girls. I never… felt like a girl. I am a man. I just don’t have…”

That’s quite enough of that. “Geralt,” he says, as softly as he can; his hand cups the witcher’s cheek again, and he presses feather-light kisses over each closed eyelid. “Darling, dearest, my heart and soul — of course you’re a man. You don’t need to justify that to anyone, least of all me.”

“I don’t want you to be… disappointed,” the witcher tells him, opening his unfairly gorgeous eyes. 

Jaskier can’t suppress a soft chuckle at that. “I could never,” he says. “I don’t care what equipment you use. It doesn’t change a single thing.”

“Really?” Geralt says, and now he sounds amused, thank the Gods. “Not even your plans?”

“Of course not,” Jaskier says cheerily. “I’ll still be using my mouth, won’t I?”

The shudder that elicits from the witcher is fucking _delicious_. “You’ll be the death of me,” he groans. 

“Let’s hope not,” Jaskier says. “I’d prefer you to live a long, blessed life from here on.”

Geralt snorts. “It hasn’t exactly been _blessed_ thus far,” he points out.

“All the more reason to start now,” answers the bard. 

The witcher still looks hesitant. “You’re sure it’s fine?” 

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “It’s not _fine_ , Geralt. It’s so much more than fine. It’s _you_.”

And really, he’d always known that Geralt is secretly a huge romantic. He once found a well-worn bawdy romance novel in the very bottom of Geralt’s saddlebag when looking for a potion — thankfully, the witcher was not conscious enough to realise that Jaskier had found it, because he’s pretty sure that it would only have made him even more closed off. It took everything in him to not make fun of the poor man for it, and he considered the rare insight into the witcher’s innermost feelings as more than enough reward for that little show of good behaviour. He’s also spoken with Eskel, who has known Geralt since before either of them had become witchers, and he has long since determined the specific amount of alcohol necessary to ply secrets and stories from that long-ago time from his memories. Geralt, bless him, has _always_ been a romantic. He’d wanted to be a knight, save people, be a _hero_. And the world, cruel and unfair, had beaten that from him as much as it could.

The point is that he knows Geralt is a romantic, but he hadn’t considered it when he’d spoken. Now, with the large and very deadly man kissing him more sweetly than any virgin maiden ever has, he is suddenly reminded of that fact. 

“You’re so gorgeous, my heart,” Jaskier sighs against his lips. “Let me take care of you, dear. I want to give you everything, if you’ll let me.”

It’s obvious that the sweet words and endearments have a very positive effect on the witcher. It’s sort of bittersweet; it makes him happy to know that he can please the other man like this, but it hurts his very soul to know that it’s such a rarity. Has anyone ever showered him with the affection that he deserves and, though he’d deny it with his dying breath, craves? Probably not, and that is honestly criminal.

The normally taciturn witcher is now like putty in his hands. Jaskier hadn’t been bluffing; he really wants to take care of Geralt. He wants to take him apart and put him back together lovingly, give him everything he deserves and more.

Now, though, it is Jaskier who stops things from escalating, for the moment. “How do you like to be touched, dearest?” he asks. “Is there anything that’s off the table?”

It’s clear to him that Geralt wasn’t expecting that question. The thought that people just _take_ without making sure that it’s something Geralt is alright with — no, he needs to calm down, Geralt doesn’t need him to be angry right now. He already looks so lost, the poor dear, like he doesn’t know how to answer. “I only mean,” Jaskier continues in what he hopes is a helpful manner, “that I know that, well, often when one’s _parts_ don’t match what most people _expect_ of their gender, there can be certain touches and spots that make that difference feel more pronounced. I don’t want to cause you any discomfort, love.”

If his expression is anything to go by, Geralt hadn’t even thought of that himself. It’s a few moments before he answers, and Jaskier waits patiently, pressing encouraging kisses to the witcher’s hands as the other thinks. “Witchers are never girls,” he finally repeats, slowly, “so I never… considered that I was any different. Or could be. Some boys just… don’t have cocks. It’s never bothered me.”

“Are there any words you don’t like? Or ones you prefer? When you talk about your anatomy, I mean.” Jaskier doesn’t want to push into an uncomfortable conversation when he should be making his lover feel good, but he _really_ doesn’t want to do something wrong and fuck it all up in the middle of the act, so he considers this the lesser of two evils. Communication is very important, after all.

Again, Geralt considers, though he doesn’t take as long. “Cunt,” he finally says, “or hole, those are fine. And I know it’s not a cock, not _really_ , but… that, and dick, those work.”

“Alright,” Jaskier says with the kindest smile he can manage. He trails kisses up from the other’s scarred knuckles, up the back of his hand, his arm, trailing over to his chest. “If you aren’t comfortable with anything, tell me,” he says against Geralt’s heated skin.

“Alright,” Geralt echoes.

Jaskier finishes pulling the witcher’s trousers off, pulling his smallclothes down along with them. He exposes bare skin so slowly that it feels like a century has passed by time Geralt is finally naked in front of him. Melitele’s holy left nipple, the witcher is already so wet for him, his cock standing out proudly just above his glistening cunt. Jaskier’s mouth is watering and his throat is dry and he _wants_.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips, unconsciously, and Geralt’s golden eyes follow the movement as if in a trance. Jaskier feels like he’s dying of thirst and Geralt is an oasis. He can’t — and would never want to — stop himself from leaning in and pressing the flat of his tongue against the gorgeous cock in front of him, and the way his witcher’s breath stutters has the desire burning red-hot through his veins. 

“Can I put my fingers in your wonderful cunt?” he asks reverently. He would usually enjoy a fair bit of foreplay, but he knows that Geralt is already nervous enough, and he wants to make it _very_ clear how pleasing this anatomy is to him. The poor dear is so dreadfully prone to self-doubt, and if Jaskier doesn’t tackle it directly he doesn’t know what Geralt’s mind will do to try to ruin this for them. 

“Yeah.” Fingers are carding through Jaskier’s hair so lightly that it could be the wind, and he makes a show of nuzzling up into the touch to let Geralt know that it is more than okay. After all, who doesn’t like having their hair pulled? (Plenty of people, but he is not one of them, thank you.)

“ _Thank you,_ ” he groans. He feels an almost magnetic pull to the witcher’s wet heat, something deep within his very being _begging_ to dive into this sumptuous feast before him. 

So, he does. He takes great pleasure in licking around the witcher’s wet hole, in roughly sucking around the thick, hard cock standing proudly out of white curls. He works his fingers into Geralt’s hole and it’s so hot and tight, clenching around him like a vise. Oh, fuck, this is _heavenly_.

And the _noises_ that Geralt makes! No music is sweeter than this. The sound of his witcher groaning his name, of, “Fuck, Jaskier, you’re so fucking _good_.” It’s not the most inspired dirty talk he’s ever heard, of course, but it is undoubtedly the best. The fact that he is pulling all of these sounds out of the usually silent man makes him feel powerful. 

Jaskier finds himself getting lost in the experience, as he usually does. He feels as though he’s acting on instinct, like there’s a tether between him and his lover, a steady stream of feedback just under the surface of everything. He can read the other’s desires like a poem, can feel on a basic, instinctive level just what his partner likes, and he does everything that connection tells him to.

With the barest hint of teeth against Geralt’s twitching dick, the witcher comes, spasming around his fingers. It hits him like a trebuchet, and he shudders with the force of the other man’s release.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans when they’ve both come down from it. He’s throbbing in his own trousers, every piece of him needing _more_.

“Fuck,” echoes the witcher. Jaskier has never heard him so out of breath, and he makes a vague mental note to feel very smug about that later.

His fingers don’t leave the other man’s hole, pressing against a spot in him that has the witcher crying out in pleasure and surprise. Somehow, he knows that neither of them are quite ready for this to be over with just yet.

“You’re so fucking _gorgeous_ ,” Jaskier groans, delivering a swift, sharp bite to the witcher’s thigh. He soothes over the reddened spot with his lips and tongue, murmuring all the while, “So lovely, so _good_ for me, my witcher, my darling Wolf.” He continues pressing endearments and kisses over the well-sculpted body before him, moving up and up and up until he takes a pink nipple between his teeth.

Geralt’s pleasure is washing over Jaskier like a tidal wave. Maybe he should have at least suspected this whole incubus thing a lot sooner. He practically gets high off of his partners’ enjoyment, after all. 

“Want you inside me,” Geralt gasps suddenly. It’s intensely erotic to think that he’s what’s made his witcher so desperate, so breathless, so needy. 

“I am inside you, dear heart,” Jaskier answers, twisting his fingers. He’s teasing in more ways than one, and predictably, Geralt growls in response.

“Want your cock, Jaskier,” he pants when the bard’s fingers press into his sweet spot again. Well. In that case, he’s all too happy to oblige.

“Which hole, love?” he asks.

“Fuck, I don’t care. Either, both. Just need you.”

Oh, Gods. 

“Front first, then,” Jaskier decides. It’s cleaner, and while Geralt’s enhanced immune system will probably keep him from getting some kind of infection, he isn’t going to risk it by going back to front. Three of his fingers are in that hole now, and he spreads them, delighting in the groan it rips from the witcher. “Are you ready?”

“Been ready, _fuck_ ,” pants the witcher. As much as the bard wants to pretend he’s unaffected by the display, it would be impossible. At this point, Jaskier’s teasing is affecting himself as much as it is the gorgeous man underneath him, so he pulls his fingers out and uses both of his hands to spread the other’s thighs farther apart. The way his hole flutters, clenching around nothing is a fucking _treat_ , and Jaskier counts himself truly, exceptionally blessed to be able to see it now.

Of course, he isn’t there to just stare. No, far from it, he is there to _perform_. With no small amount of satisfaction, he lines himself up, unable to look away as his cock breaches the witcher’s cunt. Fuck, is he _tight_. He’d known, of course, when he had the witcher squeezing around his fingers, but it is an entirely different experience with his prick. 

They both groan, and Jaskier feels dizzy, high on the pleasure. The thought that he is making Geralt so loud, so expressive — he’d be lying if he said it isn’t really, really working for him. He rolls his hips, trying to pull out as many of those beautiful sounds as he can, and when Geralt’s powerful legs come up and wrap around his waist he’s pretty sure he’s going to _die_ from how _incredible_ this is.

He isn’t even entirely aware of the litany of endearments that spill out of his mouth, the love he’s held for this man gushing forth like blood from a severed artery. (And it really says something about how much of an effect Geralt has had on him, if _that_ is the kind of comparison he conjures in the throes of passion.) Apparently, his lover is _really_ enjoying the praise he can’t help but shower him with, if the noises he makes and the way he clenches around him are anything to go by.

Jaskier wishes that this could last forever. He never wants to stop making love to this man (and they are actually _making love_ , and it's every bit as beautiful as the name implies). He wants to be buried inside of him for the rest of his unnaturally long life. Still, it was not meant to be. All good things must come to an end. 

He can tell that Geralt wants it harder, faster, before the witcher has a chance to express it. If he were in a better position for contemplating anything, he might consider the way he knows what his lovers want, as if on instinct, and connect that with his incubus blood. Of course, he is not in a contemplative mood, at the moment. All he can think about is the tight, wet heat engulfing his prick, the waves of pleasure that wash over him from himself and his lover. He brings a hand up to stroke Geralt’s cock between his thumb and forefinger, and after that, it doesn’t last much longer. It can’t. 

When Geralt clenches around him, shuddering, coming undone with a shout of his name, that’s it. There’s nothing in this world or any other that could stave off his own climax after that, and he spills over inside of his lover with a deep, satisfied groan. 

They’re both panting like they’ve run from Vergen to Oxenfurt, but it doesn’t stop Jaskier from pressing close and taking Geralt’s lips in a searing kiss. It’s hot and messy and lacks finesse, but that doesn’t make it any less incredible. 

“You still want me to fuck your arse?” Jaskier asks once he’s got his breathing in order.

Geralt, whose breath had calmed well before Jaskier’s (the stupid, fit bastard), gives him a very incredulous look. “You’re ready again?” he asks. “Already?”

Jaskier shrugs. “Think that’s an incubus thing?” he half-teases. Admittedly, he’s never bedded anyone who could match his stamina in bed, and his refractory period has always been essentially nonexistent. 

With a surprised huff of laughter, Geralt answers, “Not a human thing, that’s for sure.”

“Fuck, darling, there’s no way I could stay soft with someone so gorgeous underneath me, no matter what I am,” he purrs. It’s not his smoothest line, sure, but it’s also not _a man with bread in his pants_. And, it’s the truth. Sometimes he wonders if Geralt knows just how fucking incredible he looks. He’ll call himself a monster or ugly and Jaskier can’t help but think to himself, ‘I thought witchers were supposed to have good eyesight!’

Even now he looks like he doesn’t believe what Jaskier is saying. How could anyone look at this man and see anything other than beauty? What the fuck have people been saying to him? 

Realistically, he knows what people have been saying. He often wishes that he could go back in time and meet a younger Geralt who wasn’t yet used to being treated like absolute shit, because even though he’s been working on undoing all of the damage the years have done to Geralt’s self esteem, it would be nice if he didn’t have to. Geralt doesn’t deserve to think so little of himself, and it breaks Jaskier’s heart to think of all the shit he’d been put through before Jaskier had even been born.

But now is not the time for that. “I love you,” he says, because it _needs_ to be said again. “Are you ready for me, dearest?” 

“More than ready,” the witcher rumbles, and his smile is small but it lights up his face so beautifully that it takes Jaskier’s breath away.

Pressing a quick, gentle kiss to the witcher’s lips, Jaskier stands and retrieves the oil he keeps in his pack. He spreads it on his fingers, warming it, and presses a single digit to Geralt’s puckered rim. Just when he can _feel_ Geralt get ready to growl something along the lines of ‘ _Get on with it’_ , he presses in, slowly. 

His witcher is nothing if not receptive. Perhaps it’s the whole witcher pain tolerance thing, but he’s all but begging for a second one almost immediately. Dear Gods, this man was _made_ to be fucked, and Jaskier was made to please. 

Fingering Geralt open is almost a religious experience. He’s just as receptive to being fucked in his back hole as he was in the front, and Jaskier’s fingers draw pleasure from him in steady waves. 

“So good for me,” he says, and Geralt keens. Praises drip off of his tongue like honey and he isn’t doing anything to hold them back. “Oh, darling, you take me so well. I could spend the rest of my life enjoying this glorious body, and it would never cease to amaze me.”

“Jaskier,” the witcher gasps. He’s trying to sound stern, Jaskier can tell, but the effect is undermined just a tad by how breathless and needy he sounds, sweating and panting and grinding his hips down into Jaskier’s fingers. “Fuck me already.”

“Of course, dearest,” he purrs, pulling his fingers out and slicking up his hard cock. The bard bites his lip, grounding himself as he pushes in. 

It takes a few thrusts to find his rhythm, but then he’s pressing into Geralt in exactly the way that he knows the witcher likes. (He’s honestly convinced that it must be an incubus thing, surely, to have this innate knowledge of what his partner enjoys most, and he makes a quick mental note to explore that more later.) Each roll and press of his hips draws punched-out noises from deep in Geralt’s throat, and Jaskier’s hips stutter when he feels Geralt wrap those powerful legs around his waist. 

Maybe it’s embarrassingly quick. Maybe it’s a lifetime. Truly, time has no meaning when they’re tangled together like this, drinking in each other’s pleasure, every gasp and moan spurring them on. All Jaskier knows is that eventually, he finds himself back on the precipice, staring down at that yawning chasm of oblivion once again. 

He jerks Geralt’s cock again, because fuck, he loves the way his witcher reacts. Heat pools low in his belly and it’s a wonder even to him that he’s able to hold on until Geralt falls over the edge with him, but once he feels muscles tighten around him and hears Geralt groan out his name that’s _it_ for him. 

They have to catch their breath. Geralt was made for athletics, and Jaskier was made for fucking, but they both find that that was _a lot_. 

“I love you,” Jaskier murmurs against sweat-slick skin, and Geralt shudders.

“Fuck,” Geralt mumbles, pulling him in for another kiss. “Love you too.”

“I think that was a good start,” Jaskier says conversationally after they’ve both cleaned up, when they lay in the bed with their limbs tangled. “A good first test.”

“Mm,” is the only answer that he gets for that.

“Geralt?” he says after another short moment.

“Hmm?”

“Well, it’s just… hm.” He isn’t entirely sure how to ask.

“Out with it, Jaskier,” says the witcher, but he sounds amused rather than irritated. 

“You have a certain… reputation,” Jaskier says carefully. “And I’m wondering, well, to put it bluntly — I’ve heard a lot of stories about your massive cock.”

“Yeah,” Geralt rumbles, sounding a little embarrassed. “It’s, uh… Triss made me one.”

“Made you a cock?” Jaskier asks, raising himself up just enough to look his witcher in the eye.

Geralt, for his part, looks away. It’s so cute when he’s bashful, Jaskier can’t help but think. “Yeah,” he says again. “It’s… magic. Attaches to my body, feels real for me and whoever I use it on.”

The bard gapes at him, and then smacks his chest.

“Ow,” Geralt gripes, though Jaskier knows for a fact that he couldn’t hurt the witcher if he’d tried. “What was that for?”

“Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier says with as much outrage as he can possibly muster, “you mean to tell me that you have had a _magic dildo_ all this time, and you haven’t breathed a fucking _word_ of it to me? I thought you loved me, you bastard!”

Geralt gives him a _look_ , but Jaskier is not letting this go. No, they are going to have a _lot_ of fun with this new information.


End file.
